Page 94 of Crossed

For so long, I hated her because I feared her. And now I fear her because Icraveher.

But in the end, Parker gets her. The thought of her being with him is an ice pick to the chest, but it’s for the best.

There’s nothing I can offer her. It’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

“Fancy a walk, Miss Paquette?” I place my hand in the space between us, knowing I shouldn’t allow the touch but not being able to stop myself from offering it.

She nods, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and Jeremiah before she slips her delicate hand in mine.

My stomach flies into my throat, my heart slamming against my sternum.

I pull her to a stand, a little too forcefully, making her legs stumble as she rises. Her hand flies into the flat of my chest. We both suck in a breath, and my palm settles on the small of her back to balance her.

Heat spreads through my arm and settles in my chest.

My fingers tighten in the fabric of her shirt and tug, the smallest amount, and her body skims along the front of mine.

It’s just a second. A moment that will surely get lost in infinite space and time. But it shakes me like an earthquake anyway.

We separate quickly, and I open the door, nodding to Jeremiah one more time as I lead her into the hall.

I keep us moving until we’re outside and heading down the small path connecting the cathedral to the cottage. Far enough away for the illusion of privacy and close enough to explain it away.

Nobody really comes back to this area anyway.

She looks at me when we near the front door, her body growing tight. “What are we doing here?”

I shrug, because the truth is, I’m not sure. I don’t ever know what I’m doing when it comes to her. “Something we shouldn’t, probably.”

A small smile graces her face, and when I open the front door, she walks inside, stripping off her coat and laying it on the back of the couch. Immediately, I know bringing her here was a mistake.

All I can do is picture the last time she was in my home, how wet and hot and perfect she was.

If I was a smart man, I’d be telling Parker I have no interest in these ridiculous one- on- one sessions.

There’s nothing honorable about my intentions with Amaya Paquette, and I should try to hold on to the small shreds of decorum I try so hard to possess. But I cannot help myself.

“Makes sense,” she says, spinning to face me. “We’re friends now after all. Right?”No.

“I just thought you’d want to be somewhere familiar,” I reply.

“I want to be anywhere that you are.” Her eyes grow wide, and my chest lights up like fireworks. “Oh, I didn’t mean— well, you know what I meant.”

“Non, petite pécheresse.” I take a step closer. “I don’t think that I do.”

She retreats until she hits the back of the couch, and I chuckle, moving past her and into the kitchen, assuming she’ll follow.

She does.

When you spend so many moments watching somebody live their life, you learn all the idiosyncrasies that make themthem.

And I may not know what Amaya’s first words were or how old she was when she realized she wanted to dance, but I know she licks her lips when she’s nervous and that she mouths silent songs when she’s all alone.

I know she loves control and hates being told what to do, and she’ll stuff down emotion until she’s vibrating from holding it in.

I know her favorite color is emerald green, she hates dressing up, and she’s so beautiful even an angel can’t compare.

So I knew she’d follow me into the kitchen, because IknowAmaya Paquette, maybe better than she knows herself.